tolaywaste | 18.

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[Alex is praying. He's in the chapel with his head bowed, like he's been since just after lunch, and he thinks he's gonna stay until dinner. It probably won't help in the grand scheme of things, but it's quiet here, and that's what he wants. Space to think. Or feel, maybe.]

[He woke up to a flood that drew the very worst memories of his life out of him, laid them on display for anyone at all to see, and now that the smoke is clearing he finds himself in mourning again. It's unexpected how much he misses Pietro, like a sharp pain between his ribs. He wasn't a brother, wasn't important in the same way that Ben or Sean or Armando are, but he was - is - important. He understood things implicitly, things about family that Alex doesn't like to explain.]

[So Alex isn't sure what he's praying for, exactly, other than Pietro's safety. Maybe his, maybe Anya's, maybe nothing in particular. All he knows for sure is he doesn't want to leave.]

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[She leans back, directly opposite of his bowed head. She stares ahead, not defiantly, but feeling as though maybe she ought to be. It doesn't make hearing the apology any easier, and her head droops a little with it. Bows.]

Why are you here?

Pietro's gone.

[Which doesn't tell much of a story, or maybe it does. Because his voice sounds kind of hollow. He's lost so many people. He isn't trying to upset her. He just wants her to know she's - she's not alone, in being alone.]

[It's not the words; it's the tone. For a while she says nothing, then she turns her head just enough to look at him.]

I'm sorry.

[He looks up at her, gives her a faint smile without much power behind it. Nothing like when he means it. He's sure she can tell the difference.]

Thanks.

You know, I think when people say that, I'm sorry - I'm sorry for your loss - it's just. They're sorry 'cause they can't do anything better than say sorry. I can't do anything better for you. It's messed up.

[She can. And she understands what he means.]

There's nothing to be done. It's not as if I can do anything for you.

You're here. That helps.

[He fumbles for words, how to explain it without sounding weird, and then decides - screw it.]

Just being with other people can help. Sometimes. Not always.

[She doesn't say anything - not because she finds it weird, but because she's been struggling with this, with not feeling weak when she realizes she wants something out of others. Something as simple as company.

So she faces forward again, leans back in her seat.]

Sometimes.

[He laughs, and it's as hollow as he's ever sounded, laughing. Usually he saves laughter for fun. This one scrapes the back of his throat.]

Sometimes it just screws you up more. I don't know.

[It's strange to hear on him, and she turns, staring for a long moment. She knows what it is, it all just settles into place - why he's here, why he laughs even though he's miserable.]

Who has gone?

Pietro.

[He looks away, steeling himself, and then looks right at her. He doesn't bother to hide the pain; he's no good at hiding it anyway.]

He was a friend of mine. And he . . . needed a friend, I think. [Never mind that Alex needed one too. Never mind that.]

Edited 2013-09-14 23:47 (UTC)

[Never mind what he needs, because he's not allowed to come first. Seeing that pain is raw, but she doesn't look away. Morgana was good at this, once: she knew when and how to reach out, and didn't see it as weakness. She reaches out now, puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him toward her for a hug. He needs one, and maybe she does too.]

[It comes as a complete shock, what she's doing, so much so that he freezes at first. He didn't even think Morgana liked him much up until right this minute, was kind of surprised that she came to the chapel at all. But she's holding him. Comforting him.]

[Since when is this kind of comfort something he's allowed?]

[After a moment, though, he wraps his arms very carefully around her as though she might break, or pull away in disgust. He holds her carefully and lets himself relax. Maybe she is a friend, after all.]

[She is tired of trying to hold everyone at arm's length. It's a struggle between what was known and what was learned, but maybe it would be nice to find a balance between friends and relying on them.

Morgana settles her chin on his shoulder, silent until he finally relaxes.]

He was lucky to have you. [She doesn't pull away, doesn't feel the need to look him in the eye when she says it.]

[His eyes are downcast, over her shoulder, running over the rough wood of the pews. He doesn't believe her, not quite. But that she believes it of him - helps, in some small way.]

[So few of them are lucky in any way at all. He's beginning to wonder what luck or faith mean, in the end.]

Thank you, [he says roughly.] I'm - thank you.

[She nods over his shoulder once, falling silent again. He's a good man, in a way that reminds her - often infuriatingly - of another man who she once thought of as good.]

You're welcome. It's all right to believe it. [She's afraid, distantly, that he'll disappoint. That he won't stay as good as he is now. She's trying not to consider that.]

[If you say so, he thinks, doesn't say, not wanting to sound ungrateful. He knows this is rare, for her.]

[So he pulls away first, looking down - even now, a little shy. He doesn't quite know how to handle this. He wants to do it right.]

You're my friend. [Which is all wrong. But. True.] I - want us to be friends.

[She lets him pull away, drops her hands back to her lap and settles with her back against the pew again, until he gets the words out. Friends. Friends are dangerous.

Friends are a comfort.

She wants the comfort, but can't stand the way it overwhelms her, reminds her that what she cares about can be used against her.]

I wouldn't be here for an enemy.

[It surprises her, a little, that the suggestion is true. that maybe they are friends.]

[He half-smiles, confused but not confused. Understanding at a deep undercurrent emotional level what she means.]

Friends and not-enemies aren't the same thing.

[She returns his smile, thinks of the last time she said because we're friends. She'd needed Guinevere's position inside Camelot, but truthfully - she had wanted a friend, a sister, someone to love unconditionally.

That isn't what's on the table here, and she has no mandrake to make it that way even if she wanted to. She wonders, idly, if she would do it.]

Then perhaps we're friends.

I guess we can wait and see.

[Maybe this comes out threatening, but he doesn't intend it to be. Just awkward and concerned and wanting very much to help her, though he's sure she doesn't want to be helped.]

What do you want out of a friend anyway? 'Cause Ben asked me once what being friends meant. It was harder to answer than I expected.

[She frowns, a little, then frowns harder at his question. Alex isn't the sort to threaten, but it would be a lie to say she didn't see threats everywhere. But in a friend...

She thinks of Gwen again, and turns to look ahead of her, considering. Considering ignoring the question. But she opens her mouth instead.]

Trust. Faith. Loyalty. [Her mouth curls at the corner, because that doesn't exist, not for her.] I've had friends, Alex. It doesn't last.

I know.

[His voice is quiet. Not pitying in the least. Just acknowledging, in the private space of whatever's transpiring between them, whether it's friendship or just prickly acquaintanceship. He does know; he can see it in her eyes every day.]

I'm pretty good at those things. But, I mean. You don't need to trust me. Once you trust enough people and they hurt you, it's hard to start again.

You don't trust easily. [She can see that in him, the way he reads her. The difference is, he does trust. He still can. Her brow furrows just a little.]

Why do you? [He opens himself up to it, to being hurt, betrayed, rejected. Morgana wants to think that she has it in her to be a wonderful friend, that she could be protective and kind and loyal - but practically, she doubts it. Knows that she should never open herself up to that again. It always ends.]

Because I was alone for too long.

[It's an easy, instant answer. He couldn't stand it any longer, to be all by himself with no one to have his back, not after he's found people he believes in. Honestly, he'd rather they stab him in the back than be alone. It doesn't make sense, but he was too desperate for love for too long to change his mind now.]

[She understands that in a way that makes her wrists chafe and itch, and she has to clench her hands in her lap to keep from rubbing at them.]

You can get used to it. [You can't. She never could and she still can't, though she keeps trying.]

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